Chapter Six: Breaking the Silence

The late October air was crisp, biting at my skin as I trudged down Greenwich Avenue to The Gilded Spoon for my evening shift. The sidewalks glistened with remnants of a morning shower, and the faint scent of cherry blossoms mixed with the exhaust of passing taxis. Two weeks had passed since Justin’s plea at the restaurant, his words—I’m not in her world. I’m trying to be in yours—burning in my mind like a brand, unanswered and unrelenting. I’d replayed that moment a thousand times: his hand reaching for mine, the raw hunger in his hazel eyes, the crack in his voice that made my pussy throb. But then came the TMZ headlines and X posts about him and Xiamond at that Manhattan gala, her gold gown clinging to her like a second skin, plastered across screens like she fucking owned him. Photos of them laughing under chandeliers, her arm looped through his like it was made to stay there. It hit me harder than I’d admit, a sharp twist in my gut that left me aching.

I hadn’t texted him back, my phone a graveyard of his messages—short ones like Kayla, please call turning into desperate pleas: This isn’t what it looks like. Let me explain. I’d scroll through them late at night, my fingers hovering over the reply button, my thighs clenching at the thought of him. But then I’d see another X post from Xiamond, her sultry voice teasing “exciting collaborations” with Justin’s tech firm in some glossy interview clip. I was just a waitress, my jet-black hair yanked into a messy bun, my scuffed sneakers squeaking on polished floors. No match for Xiamond’s million-follower glow, her life a blur of private jets and red-carpet fucks. Every time I thought of Justin’s hazel eyes, warm and molten like autumn whiskey, her shadow loomed larger, reminding me I was a speck in his world of boardrooms and billion-dollar deals.

The Gilded Spoon was a pulsing hive when I pushed through the heavy oak doors, its chandeliers dripping gold over mahogany tables draped in crisp white linens, candles flickering like tiny promises. The air was thick with sizzling steak, the oaky bite of red wine, and the low hum of conversations—deals being sealed, dates unfolding in the soft glow. I tied my black apron around my waist, the frayed fabric hugging my hips, and pulled my hair into a loose ponytail, strands teasing my neck. I clocked in, grabbed my notepad, and prayed the chaos would drown out the noise in my head—Justin’s voice, Xiamond’s smile, the fucking headlines.

Jake was behind the bar, his blond hair catching the light as he mixed a cocktail, the shaker rattling like a warning. He was my rock here, always ready with a flirty quip or a listening ear. “You look like you’re carrying a fucking storm, Kayla,” he said, sliding me a soda with a lime wedge that fizzed against my lips. “Still dodging Drake? Billionaire CEOs don’t chase waitresses for nothing, you know.”

“Not dodging,” I said, forcing a smirk that felt brittle as glass. “Just… done.” But I wasn’t. The ache in my chest pulsed every time I saw an X post about Xiamond, her cryptic tech-logo selfies fueling rumors of her and Justin launching some world-changing app. The world had decided they were perfect: the influencer queen and the tech god, a power couple made for magazine covers. And I was the idiot who’d believed in “us,” in the stolen moments after that charity auction in October, when we’d spilled our guts on a balcony under the city lights, talking about dreams and fears until dawn.

Mid-shift, as I balanced a tray of steaming entrees—filet mignon dripping with truffle butter, seared scallops in lemon sauce—the door chimed, a sound that hit like a punch. Not Justin this time—Xiamond. She swept in like a fucking queen, her dark hair in a sleek updo that framed her sharp cheekbones and full lips, a cream blazer and matching skirt screaming money and sex. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, each step drawing eyes like a spotlight. Customers whispered behind menus, phones sneaking photos. “Is that Xiamond? The influencer?” I heard a woman at table five hiss to her friend.

I gripped my tray so hard my knuckles ached, my heart pounding like a drum. She wasn’t just a headline or an I*******m story from her latest Greece getaway, all sun-kissed selfies and #EmpireBuilding bullshit. Up close, her aura was fucking suffocating—poised, glamorous, born to own the room. She settled at the corner table by the window, the one with the best view of the avenue, and scrolled her phone, her nude-painted nails glinting under the chandelier light. I dodged her section like it was a fucking minefield, darting between tables to refill waters and clear plates, but my eyes betrayed me, flicking to her every few minutes. She sipped sparkling water, her posture perfect, like she was fucking royalty. Everything I wasn’t: confident, ambitious, the kind of woman who’d look perfect bent over Justin’s desk.

Then the door chimed again, a sound that felt like a warning shot. Justin. His gray sweater hugged his broad frame, the fabric stretching over muscles that begged to be touched, his dark curls tousled like he’d been running his hands through them in frustration. His hazel eyes—fuck, those eyes—scanned the room, landing on me first, softening for a heartbeat before shifting to Xiamond. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking under his stubble, and my stomach dropped. You again. What kind of fresh hell was this? I kept moving, flashing smiles as I delivered plates, but my doubts roared louder than the kitchen’s clatter. Xiamond and Justin in the same room? The headlines were already writing themselves: Tech Titans Reunite—Romance Rekindled?

“Kayla,” Justin called, striding toward me with that determined gait, his voice slicing through the restaurant’s hum like a blade. Heads turned—customers pausing mid-bite, coworkers exchanging looks, and Xiamond… her eyes flicked up from her phone, sharp and calculating, like a predator sizing me up.

“I’m working,” I said, my tone cool as ice, using my tray as a shield. My hands trembled, the silverware clinking softly, Xiamond’s exotic perfume—something rich and spicy—wafting over like a taunt. “What do you want, Justin? More excuses?”

He stepped closer, his woodsy cologne wrapping around me, pulling me back to that balcony where his lips had claimed mine, soft but hungry, his hands gripping my waist like he’d never let go. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks,” he said, his voice low and rough, laced with a frustration that mirrored the heat pooling between my thighs. “The headlines, Xiamond—it’s all fucking wrong. Those gala photos? Staged for PR. I need you to hear me out, Kayla. Please.”

I glanced at Xiamond, her gaze locked on us, a faint smile playing on her lips like she was enjoying the fucking show. My chest tightened, my pussy throbbing despite the anger. “Looks like you’ve got company,” I said, jerking my chin toward her table. “Business meeting? Or are you two planning your next viral fuckfest?”

His eyes followed mine, frustration flashing across his face, darkening his features. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “She’s here for a contract signing. Some AI partnership for her brand and my company. That’s it, Kayla. I don’t want her. I want you.” His voice dropped to a growl, his hazel eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made my clit pulse. “Remember that night at the auction? You told me about your dream café, how you’re scared you’ll never be more than a waitress. I told you I’m drowning in my own world. That was real. This?” He gestured toward Xiamond. “This is just fucking noise.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight as memories hit me—his lips brushing mine under the stars, the way he’d listened when I bared my soul. “Noise? Justin, it’s fucking everywhere. X posts, magazines, my coworkers asking if I’ve seen the latest ‘couple alert.’ How am I supposed to believe you when the world thinks you’re hers?”

He reached out, his fingers grazing my arm, sending a jolt straight to my core. “Because I’m telling you the fucking truth. Xiamond and I hooked up last year, before you. It was nothing—purely for show, a PR stunt. But you? You’re real. You make me want to tear down my walls, Kayla.” His words were raw, slicing through my doubts, but Xiamond’s presence loomed like a shadow.

From her table, Xiamond cleared her throat, her voice smooth as silk cutting in. “Justin, darling, everything okay? I hate to interrupt, but we’ve got that contract to finalize.” She stood, gliding toward us with a sway that made every head turn, her flawless skin glowing, her obsidian eyes sharp. “And you must be Kayla. I’ve heard so much about you.”

My blood ran cold, my body tense. “Heard? From who?” I snapped, sharper than I meant. Jake watched from the bar, polishing a glass like he wasn’t ready to jump in if shit went south.

Xiamond’s smile widened, but it was all teeth, no warmth. “Oh, just around. Justin talks about you in our meetings. Says you’re quite the… inspiration.” Her tone had an edge, like she was testing me, seeing how far she could push.

Justin stepped between us, his posture protective, his voice firm. “Xiamond, not now. Kayla and I need a minute.”

She raised a perfect eyebrow, her lips curving. “Of course. But time’s money, Justin, and we’ve got investors waiting.” She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. “Nice to meet you, Kayla. Don’t let the rumors fool you—Justin’s a catch, but he’s all business when it counts.” She sauntered back to her table, her heels clicking like a countdown.

I turned to Justin, my emotions a fucking whirlwind. “See? Even she acts like there’s something there. How do I compete with that?”

“You don’t have to compete,” he growled, his voice thick with need. “There’s no fucking competition. Kayla, give me one conversation. After your shift. That park across the street, just you and me on that bench. No cameras, no bullshit. Just us.”

I hesitated, the ache in my chest warring with the heat his words sparked. The restaurant buzzed around us—plates clattering, laughter from a nearby table, jazz humming overhead. My mind raced: What if he was telling the truth? What if I walked away and regretted it forever? But Xiamond’s smile, the headlines, the world between us—it was a fucking wall.

“Fine,” I whispered, barely audible, my voice shaking with want and fear. “One conversation. But if it’s more lies, Justin, I’m done for good.”

His face lit up, relief washing over him like a wave, his eyes burning with something that made my pussy ache. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.” He squeezed my hand, his touch sending a shiver through me, then stepped back, giving me space. As he headed to Xiamond’s table—business, just business, he signaled with a glance—I felt a mix of dread and anticipation. The shift dragged on, every look at their table fueling my imagination: Was her hand too close to his on the contract? Was their laughter too easy?

By closing time, as I untied my apron and stepped into the cool October air, Justin was waiting outside, his sweater zipped against the chill, his eyes locked on me. “Ready?” he asked, offering his arm.

I nodded, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow, his warmth seeping into me. The park was quiet, cherry blossoms drifting down like fucking confetti. We sat on the bench, the city lights twinkling in the distance, and he started talking—really talking. About the pressure of his world, the loneliness behind the billions, how meeting me had been a goddamn lifeline. “Xiamond’s just a partner,” he said, pulling out his phone to show emails proving it was all professional. “The gala? Her PR team staged those photos to hype the deal. I should’ve told you sooner.”

Tears pricked my eyes as his words sank in, my walls crumbling. “I was scared,” I admitted, my voice breaking. “Scared I’d get fucked over, that I wasn’t enough.”

“You are,” he said, cupping my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “More than fucking enough.” Our lips met, soft but hungry, reigniting the fire from that October night. As we pulled apart, the world felt less like a battlefield. Maybe I could step into his world—or drag him into mine.

But as we walked back, my phone buzzed with an X notification: a photo of us in the park, captioned Justin Drake’s Mystery Woman—Who Is She? The headlines never fucking stopped. Yet, with Justin’s hand in mine, his warmth grounding me, I felt ready to face them.

Justin stood in the park, his heart pounding as Kayla’s lips met his, her taste reigniting every spark from that auction night. She was everything—raw, real, a fire that burned through his polished world. The headlines, Xiamond’s staged photos, the fucking X posts—they were nothing compared to her. He’d seen the doubt in her brown eyes, the way she’d braced herself against him, and it only made him want her more. Love at first sight wasn’t real, he’d thought, but with her hand in his, her breath warm against his skin, he was ready to burn it all down to keep her.